Of You And Me
by tsukimeushi
Summary: A collection of drabbles revolving around Ironhide/Ratchet and Prowl/Jazz. Rated T for possible future chapters.
1. Everything

**Title: **Everything**  
Pairings/Characters:** Ironhide/Ratchet, First Aid, Hound**  
Continuity:** GEEWUN**  
Notes:** Er, yeah. This is where I'll dump any ficlets that pop into my brain and won't stop clawing at me until I scribble them down :C ffff.

* * *

"So," First Aid asked, "just what do you see in him?" The question wasn't voiced with sarcasm or malice coloring its tone—just simple curiosity, with more than a pinch of amusement. Ratchet frowned and glanced over at the other medic, then looked across the medbay to where Ironhide was making his way out, stopping momentarily to clap a berth-ridden Hound on the shoulder.

The CMO's expression lost its hard edge. His answer was softly spoken with a small, rare smile, optics remaining locked on the red warrior.

"Everything," he said.


	2. My Show's On

**Title:** My Show's On**  
Pairings/Characters:** Hinted 'Hide/Ratchet, Prowl/Jazz**  
Continuity:** Le Movie!verse**  
Notes: **Born from me noticing that, in a cutscene in the RotF video game, Ironhide is standing on the top of a building and strikes a pose reminiscent of a certain caped crusader. Also look who's not dead and look who's finally got his booty down to Earth.

* * *

"_Ironhide!_"

"Slag, man, _so_ busted," Jazz said to the burly mech on his left, voice distracted and distant. To his right, Prowl snorted softly in agreement. The Topkick just grunted and shifted slightly on the couch, gears clicking, attention focused on the large vidscreen in front of them. Another moment, the quiet before the storm, then a flurry of chartreuse and black burst into the rec room, clawed fingers flexing, optics blazing icy blue. The medic tromped over to the couch, crossed his arms, and scowled down at the Weapons Specialist.

"It can wait, Ratch'," Ironhide said to his enraged lover, optics still on the screen.

"It cannot _wait_, you're holding up my _entire fragging schedule_—"

"It can wait."

"It's just a routine systems check, why are you being so _difficult?_"

Ironhide opened his mouth but didn't respond, falling silent as an explosion bloomed on the screen. Jazz lifted his head up from its spot on Prowl's shoulder to crane around and look at the fuming medic.

"Doc," he said, explanatory tone just shy of _duh_, "_Batman's on_."


	3. Obvious

**Title: **Obvious**  
Pairings/Characters:** Prowl/Jazz**  
Continuity: **Movie!verse, early in the war**  
Notes: **Jeez, you two. Get a room. Also, 1 orn = ~1 day

* * *

The saboteur's latest mission had lasted thirteen-point-six one orns, five-point-three orns longer than originally anticipated, but that didn't matter now because it was over and Jazz was back, coming in through the base's main entrance in the chilly early hours of the morning. He was limping and singed in a few places but he was alive, and at this moment that was far more important than any intel he may have gathered, as illogical as that might seem. Prowl moved quickly to his side, looping an arm around Jazz's waist to steady him.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, not bothering to hide the concern and relief in his voice. Jazz looks at the tactician, visor glowing brightly, offers him one of those _brilliant_ smiles of his and says "I am now," and Prowl belatedly realizes that he's fallen in love.


	4. Desperate Times

**Title:** Desperate Measures**  
Pairings/Characters:** Prowl/Jazz**  
Continuity:** G1 or movie!verse, you choose**  
Notes:** I REGRET NOTHING.

* * *

"_We're no strangers to loooooovvve--_"

Oh no.

"_—You know the RUULLESS and SO do IIIII—"_

_Not again._

"_A full commitment's what I'm thinking ooooff/you wouldn't get this from any other guyyy/IIIII just wanna tell you how I'm feeeelliinn'/gotta make you understaaannd—_"

Prowl's doorwings twitched in barely-contained irritation as he forced himself to move from the doorway of his office to settle at his desk. He held off on starting on his work for the moment, however—might as well listen to the lyrics of this latest affront to his audios.

He did have to admit that Jazz had consistently managed to find songs that effectively conveyed their situation; he would have been touched by the sentiment if—if—_we've known each other for so looonnng, your heart's been aching but you're to shyy to say iiiitt—_if he could think straight during these musical bombardments, for one thing.

Jazz's attempts to get him to openly admit that he returned the saboteur's undying affections (not that he didn't—Prowl had admitted to himself long ago that he was indeed helm-over-pedes for the other mech—but it wouldn't be _proper_, for two high-ranking officers to be involved like that, no matter how he might feel in the contrary) had gone from subtle advances to shameless flirting to the quick, occasional grope of a doorwing to these more recent and very vocal pronouncements.

The first time Prowl had found himself in this situation was six orns ago. It had been very late in the evening and he was making his way slowly back to his quarters after a double-shift spent working every kink and uncertainty out of a set of plans for the infiltration of a new Decepticon outpost. He had reached his quarters, punched the code into the door panel, trudged in, and collapsed on his berth—only to leap off with a startled and undignified yelp. His berth had started to _sing_ at him.

Prowl recognized the song, too; Jazz had been humming it the orn before, but now he could hear the lyrics—_You're just too good to be truue/can't take my eyes off of yoouu/you'd be like heaven to touch/I wanna hold you so much_—Prowl smiled softly as he listened to the rest of the song, too tired to think about anything other than the melody. The song got quieter as he settled back on his berth and stopped altogether as his exhausted systems cycled down for recharge.

The next morning, Prowl managed to catch Jazz in the rec room before the saboteur's shift started, and had asked him if he happened to know anything about his singing berth. Jazz had just grinned at him and proclaimed ignorance of the incident, then strolled off to begin his shift.

_Fascinating_, Prowl had mused, and thought no more on the subject.

The second incident had been decidedly more unnerving, occurring in the form of an embedded file in one of Jazz's mission reports, which belted out "_I WAS MADE FOR LOOVIN' YOU BABY/YOU WERE MADE FOR LOVIN' MEEE" _at a ridiculous volume whenever the datapad was touched or moved. Needless to say, Prowl had never read and signed off on a report so quickly in his entire existence.

And now, of course, _this_. This time, the song seemed to be triggered on whenever Prowl came in or went out of his office. Not only that, the blasted thing started up again every half-joor and played the song a few more times—at an increased volume—if the sensor it was rigged to sensed that he was still in the room and hadn't moved or left.

To Jazz's credit, it was indeed a fairly sophisticated sensor, embedded in the walls _somewhere_, capable of hiding its energy signature so that the only way for it to be found would be if Prowl were to tear every panel off the walls in search of it (which he was almost _this close _to actually doing, at this point). Prowl had also given up trying to determine just how Jazz had managed to crack the locks on both the doors to his personal quarters and his office without leaving the slightest trace of his tampering. Jazz was exceptionally talented in his field of expertise, but he surely couldn't be _that _good. Prowl huffed a sigh through his intakes. Help. Jazz had to have had help. Maybe he had gotten Wheeljack to help him with the sensor's construction. And the twins, certainly. Must have been the twins. Had to have been the twins. Red Alert could conceivably have been of assistance, but Prowl knew that the paranoid Security Director would never have agreed to aid in the execution of such an atrocious breach of protocol. So it had to be the twins. He didn't know how they did it, but they would—

Prowl shutter-blinked his optics in rapid succession a few times—rambling. His processor had been rambling. This music was having a greater negative effect on him than he had thought. He checked his internal chronometer—five breems until the next loop was about to start. Prowl stood, paced a few steps around his desk and back, then sat down again, fending off the musical assault for another half-joor.

* * *

It had stopped working. His tactic of moving around every twenty-five breems to fool the sensor had stopped working. The damn thing started playing anyway, regardless of his movement. So now here he was—

" _Never gonna give you up-"_

—five joors into it—

"_Never gonna let you down/never gonna ruuun around and deserrrt yoou-"_

—pondering what it would feel like to go completely, irreparably insane as the jaunty tune started looping again.

He couldn't take it anymore. The situation was spiraling out of control and Prowl decided that he had to do something about it before his processor sent him into a self-preserving stasis lock. With a few keystrokes he brought the signal tracker up on his monitor to confirm Jazz's location. He then stood up, piled the remaining unread reports on a corner of his desk, and strode out his office door.

* * *

Jazz grinned when he heard his door chime beep at him. _Third time's the charm_, he thought. He rolled off his berth and padded to the door, pushing the _open_ button on the side panel. The door swished apart to reveal the 2IC, a barely perceptible quiver in his doorwings and—finally!—a look in his optics that Jazz had been waiting a very long time indeed to see displayed openly.

"Took ya long enough," the saboteur said as he put his hands on his hips, grin firmly in place. Prowl just snorted in response.

"Gotta say, though," Jazz said, reaching out to wrap a hand around Prowl's wrist and pull him into the room, "never thought I'd hafta _Rickroll _yer confession out of ya."

* * *

**Author's Postscript:** For the record, I love all three of those songs. And the rest of the Autobots should be thankful that Prowler capitulated when he did--Jazz's next recourse of action was to follow him around night and day belting out Ewan Mcgregor's _Moulin Rouge_ WE SHOULD BE LOOOOOOVVVERRRRRRSSSSS line until he gave in.


End file.
